


It's Us Against Consensus

by ravenhairedtrickster



Category: Fury (2014)
Genre: Drabble, I dont claim to have any grasp on writing Norman, I write silly things, M/M, various relationships - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-01 17:10:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2781119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravenhairedtrickster/pseuds/ravenhairedtrickster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles/ficlets/etc featuring the Fury crew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fingertips

**Author's Note:**

> 30 day challenge.
> 
> Will have various pairings.

The Fury sat quiet on cobblestone street, a makeshift mess tent set up not far, tarp haphazardly strung between two collapsed buildings. A cool breeze filtered through the ruins, the aftermath of a battle hard fought and won; for now they’d try to forget the casualty count.

Don picked at his food with distaste. 

Beside him both Grady and Gordo had managed to choke the stuff down between mouthfuls of scotch. Even Norman was doing better and didn’t seem to mind the powdered milk, too watery and tasting of whatever tin it’d been kept in. 

Don stared down at his plate, surplus canned beans that had to have come from world war one and some sorry excuse for bread. Disgusting. 

Pushing away from the table with a scrape of his chair he stood.

“You gotta eat,” Boyd chimed in suddenly. 

Don glared at his plate before looking to Boyd’s. The gunner had speared what appeared to be a soggy piece of bread with his fork and had been in the process of wiping up excess tomato sauce. 

Don watched the remains of Boyd’s meal disappear into his mouth, followed by a sip of lukewarm coffee. 

He turned on his heel and made his leave.

Fishing a cigarette out he headed towards the Fury, at least in her he could crack a pack of saltines and drink from his canteen. 

“Top, wait up!” 

He paused at Boyd’s call, slowed his pace as he lit his cigarette, shielding it from the wind with a hand until it took. 

“If you don’t practice what you preach, people ain’t gonna listen to you,” Boyd murmured as he fell in beside him. 

“Dirt tastes better than that shit, it always has, how I survived this long on army rations I’ll never fucking know.” Don retorts. “If you’re referring to Norman, I’ll give him an ass kicking if he thinks he can get out of direct commands.”

“You lose respect for someone who can’t follow their own orders,” Boyd says, pulls a cigarette out. “Hold up there.”

They stop as Boyd digs around his pockets, looking for his silver zippo, a frustrated noise escapes his throat when he can’t find it. 

“Here,” Don mutters and holds out his cigarette. He exhales smoke from his lungs as Boyd reaches out, his cigarette pressing to Don’s until it lights. 

Like this Don’s fingers dip beneath Boyd’s just barely, it’s a touch that is hardly there but still Don is very aware of it. Boyd must be to because he makes no attempt to move, merely holding the cigarettes together, as though pretending his hadn’t caught yet.

“Sorry, my hand slipped,” Don says suddenly, jerking away, watching Boyd’s hand fall for a split second before correcting itself and bringing the cigarette to the gunners lips. 

“It’s alright, Top, I don’t mind it none.”

The sincerity in Boyd’s voice almost pains Don.

“I know,” he replies softly, glancing nervously back at the mess tent. “Come here.”

Boyd follows Don until the Fury is between them and the makeshift tent. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” Boyd says slowly, leaning against the Fury’s tracks. He breathes out a substantial plume of smoke.

“No, I suppose I don’t, not to you.”

“I know why you’re afraid, I am too-” Boyd begins but Don interrupts him.

“I hate how you read me like an open book, Bible,” he grunts, flicking the cigarette away and stepping close. 

Boyd is trapped. The Fury is solid against his back and he shifts to feel the faint discomfort of unyielding metal as Don closes in. 

He grins when gloved fingertips dance their way down his arms, stopping at his wrists. 

“You know I have to,” Boyd murmurs, his cigarette lost somewhere on the ground. “You won’t tell me what’s on your mind otherwise.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Boyd’s right, he always seems to be and it humbles Don.

“What about right now,” Don says voice low. “What’s on my mind right this second.”

“To be frank,” Boyd says with a laugh. “Me.”

“Right you are, soldier.” Don says and adrenaline courses through him when he covers Boyd’s mouth with his own. His tongue leaves a messy trail along Boyd’s jaw when he pulls back.

“You should go finish your food,” Boyd reminds him. 

Don decides the coffee doesn’t taste that bad as he stomps back to the tent.


	2. Acceptance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ignore me feeling around these characters. This was more like a character study of sorts than anything else.

God sent him here for a reason. Boyd told him as much, away from the rest of the Fury tank, a cigarette hanging from his teeth as he read his weathered bible. 

“God does everything for a reason, Norm,” the gunner had said as if reading his thoughts. “For a purpose, and your purpose is to be here, with us.”

Norman had walked away feeling rattled by Boyd’s words.

-

Presently he stared at his hands, studying the lines of his palms, the dirt under his fingernails. 

“They look so clean,” he said out loud and a second later Grady cuffed him over the ear, smearing grease in Norman’s cropped hair. 

“They look clean, they ain’t clean,” Grady said from his seat inside the Fury. He nibbled at one of his fingernails as he stared Norman in the eye. “None of our hands are clean, no more, even Boyd’s are stained.”

“What?” 

Norman felt sick when Grady leaned in, his breath reeking of alcohol and smoke as he snarled: “Blood, you dumbfuck, this is war, best be gettin’ used to it, no optin’ out in this tank, boy. You’ll be soaked by the time we’re through.”

Norman scrambled from his hatch a moment later, desperate for fresh air.

-

Gordo was offering him a bottle. 

“You know, you ain’t all bad,” Gordo slurred, accent thick with his waning sobriety. “Some of these fuckers are mad like bulls, or cowed when the bullets fly. I think you started off on the wrong foot but Top put you in your place, eh Norman?”

Norman took the bottle, taking a gulp and sputtering as it burned its way down his throat. He quickly passed it back as Gordo laughed. 

“I’m just saying you’ll turn out fine. Though I’m sure you’ve noticed Top doesn’t care for greenhorns, no?”

Norman nodded, particularly hating Don’s version of bonding, Grady’s too for that matter, “Yeah.”

Gordo took another long gulp, finishing the bottle. Kicking it away he fell to his hands knees and crawled on his belly under the Fury, not minding the mud as he curled on his side for a nap.

Norman watched him go.

-

Saltines. 

Don had a preference for them, the little crackers a distraction much like the cigarettes and booze; Norman often thought of gum, how sometimes the little thing such as simply chewing with no purpose helped relieve stress and tension. 

“Boyd’s been talking to me,” Don said suddenly and Norman felt his stomach drop. “Says I’m raggin’ on ya too much. Here I’m thinkin’ I’m not raggin’ on you enough.”

Norman remained silent, sensing this was not the time to defend himself.

“I’m not tryin’ to, Norman. There’s a system, and we are all cogs in the machine. When a cog doesn’t work the system fails.” 

Norman hears Don’s deep intake of breath, hears the crunch of the plastic holding the saltines crinkle.

“This system can’t fail. I won’t allow it. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Good.”

Something taps Norman’s shoulder and he turns to see Don holding the saltines out. He takes them tentatively. 

Norman places a cracker on his tongue, savouring the manner in which it dissolves. 

“They’re like dogs. When you accept them, they’ll accept you. Remember that.”

And Norman is left alone in the bowels of the Fury to think on his words.


End file.
